


Charms | Waking Up Slow

by adavison



Series: Seven Shades of Magic [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Charms, Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Desi Harry Potter, Fluff, Insecure Draco Malfoy, Lace, Lingerie, M/M, POV Alternating, Present Tense, Secret Identity, Stripper Blaise Zabini, Stripper Draco Malfoy, Teacher Harry Potter, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27001201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adavison/pseuds/adavison
Summary: A night out on the town is exactly what Harry doesn’t want. Yet, somehow he finds himself coaxed to accompany his friends to Fidelius, Diagon Alley’s hot new male strip club specialising in charm work. Despite his reluctance, he soon finds himself enchanted by an enigmatic dancer going by the name of Phoenix. Now, if he could only figure out why this stranger’s eyes feel so familiar.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Series: Seven Shades of Magic [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900732
Comments: 20
Kudos: 186
Collections: Seven Shades of Drarry





	Charms | Waking Up Slow

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Magic anthology](/series/1900732), the third in a series of collaborative projects within the [Seven Shades of Drarry](/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry) collective.
> 
> Thank you to the Seven Shades for inviting me into their ranks for the Seven Shades of Magic anthology. They are some of the most kind and welcoming people I have met in the fandom. 
> 
> This fic was a true labour of love. It pushed me to grow both as a writer and as a person.
> 
> All characters belong to J. K. Rowling *cough* bigot *cough*. I just play with them. 
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/2Qx1l1Y); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.

* * *

Stepping onto the main floor of Fidelius is an assault on the senses. Harry can feel the low base of the music pulsing through his body, his heart rate speeding up slightly to match the thumping. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low lighting broken up only by the theatrical, coloured spotlights that highlight each of the stages. The air is thick with magic. Harry can almost taste it, the sharp scent of ozone that’s being washed out by the slight tang of sweat and an air freshening charm that must have been set up in the ventilation system. 

There is so much going on. A short, barrel-chested man wearing nothing but a black thong and thigh-high boots is suspended from a hoop that hangs from the ceiling. His left leg is hooded around the hoop and it’s charmed to spin slowly. It honestly looks like something that should be happening in a circus act, not in a club. But what does Harry know, he’s never been to a club like this before. Glitter rains down from the rafters onto a young man who barely looks to be out of Hogwarts. From the looks of it, the blue and bronze sparkling mess has been charmed to not only remain within the confines of the stage but also not actually stick to the performer as he dances. 

That’s Fidelius’ gimmick—charm work. 

According to the spiel Dean gave him on their way to the club, every performer is glamoured, and they incorporate charms into all of their routines. Some are as simple as the glitter, but others are much more complicated—like the red-headed man floating through the club in a literal fucking bubble. Harry wants to laugh, or cry, at the absurdity of it all. 

This is very much NOT his scene. Yes, he likes to look at a gorgeous, half-naked man as much as the next gay, but never so publicly. He’s much more comfortable stealing surreptitious glances at the gym and looking through the odd porn mag. The internet is very tempting; however, he’s not familiar enough with a computer to guarantee he won’t download a virus. Fuck, he’s only just learned how to text properly. Ten-year-old Teddy even had to teach him about emojis, which was, quite frankly, embarrassing. 

Dean and Seamus stroll through the club like they fucking own the place, dragging him along in their wake. They settle on a dark leather loveseat which immediately elongates to accommodate the three of them. Seamus pulls Harry down to sit next to them. From there, they have a perfect view of three separate performance areas. The couple lounge against each other and begin rattling off information about the club and dancers that Harry quickly tunes out. 

He doesn’t really care. He doesn’t want to be there. He was perfectly content back at his flat, sitting on the floor of his living room and eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the pint. True, Fortescue’s is his preferred brand, but they had been closed when he got the craving, and the Tesco’s down the street stays open late so…

However, his meddling friends have deemed that behaviour ‘unhealthy’. Harry is sure that it isn’t. His Mind-Healer had told him to ‘feel his feelings’, to allow himself to express his emotions in a healthy way. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be alone and eat ice cream! True, it may have been the sixth day in a row that he did it, but he had started to feel a little bit better, and that had to count for something. 

He doubts that any of his friends would’ve handled the situation any better; the very public news that his ex—the man he was so sure he would spend the rest of his life with, up until the moment he found him in bed with someone else—was engaged to be married. Only a year has passed since that fateful day, and Harry thinks that he has moved on rather well. No, he hasn’t ‘gotten back out there’, but relationship status does not dictate a person’s level of happiness. Harry has a job he absolutely loves and a group of very good friends. So what if he’s the only single one? It doesn’t bother him. Really, it doesn’t. It just hurts to see his ex moving on so easily—as if their relationship of four years meant absolutely nothing.

True, the relationship had been toxic for a while. Looking back, Harry was a bit ashamed to admit all the red flags he ignored. It had taken him ages to come to terms with his sexuality, but his friends had all been very supportive. However, when news of him coming out had hit, the Prophet unleashed a maelstrom of negativity which left him feeling vulnerable and undeserving of love. He had been quick to throw himself into a relationship with the first man to show him any semblance of affection and for a while, it had been good. Unfortunately, nothing he did ever seemed to be enough. It was like being back with the Dursleys, but less physically violent. The Boyfriend-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had never lifted a finger against Harry, but words and ideas—although they left no physical marks—were just as damaging. 

Things are much better now. Meeting regularly with his therapist is actually helping, and he’s been able to dedicate more time to projects for work. It’s just this week that has been bad. Yes, he does still feel uncomfortable going anywhere in the Wizarding world without a glamour and switching out his glasses for contacts, but at least there have only been four articles about him in the press this week. It looks like Skeeter and her vultures are getting bored with speculating about his personal life.

When Dean and Seamus had barged through his floo, uninvited, and unceremoniously yanked the pint of ice cream out of his hands only to announce they were dragging his mopy arse to Diagon’s queer district for a night on the town, Harry hadn’t had much time to think about a disguise. After being shoved into the tightest pair of blue jeans he owned and a plum-coloured button-down, he had just enough time to cast a grooming spell at his beard, throw his overly long hair into a messy bun, put in coloured contacts, and glamour his face into his old standby—handsome, but in a bland, everyman sort of way. Ron once joked that he looked like a very tanned and dark-haired version of Percy. 

Harry fiddles with the buttons at the cuffs of his shirt. He wants to roll the sleeves up, but he’s already feeling exposed and on display. He worries that his glamour will slip and someone will recognise him. It hasn’t happened before, but the thought makes him panic a bit. 

Seamus has somehow procured drinks and shoves one into Harry’s hand. Harry can feel irritation rise within him, but he can’t bring himself to act. Another song has started playing over the speakers, and his attention is immediately captured by the new performer who is stepping onto the stage closest to them. 

The man is exquisite: dark curling hair, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a tall, lithe figure. He doesn't appear overly muscular, like some of the men. His body undulates to the rhythm of what is clearly a Muggle song. The black satin robe he is wearing slowly slips off his shoulders and slithers onto the floor, revealing a black lace bustier and matching knickers. His pale skin is almost luminescent against the dark fabric. 

He's obviously fit with a firm chest and a shapely arse. In spite of this, the man is rather pointy—there's barely an ounce of fat on him. He has sharp elbows and cheekbones and a wicked smirk that’s sure to leave some men wounded in its wake. His appearance is an array of contradictions all rolled into one devastatingly handsome and captivating enigma. Harry wants to wrap himself around this man on a rainy day and laze about, never letting go.

_Maybe I'm too_

_Busy bein' yours_

_To fall for somebody new_

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. The performer mounts the pole behind him and begins to execute a complicated series of spins and moves that Harry would never be able to place a name to. All he knows is that it’s impressive and sexy as hell. The man is mesmerising. While sliding down the pole holding on by only his crossed ankles, he conjures a Bluebell Flame in each hand, casting the small balls of fire around the stage to move with him and the music. 

While Dean and Seamus are drooling over the man’s body, Harry is more intrigued by the performance. Yes, he’s turned on, but he’s also wondering how the man manages to look so damn graceful, which core muscles he’s engaging for each new move, how long it must have taken to practice and choreograph the piece, if magic is assisting the gravity-defying positions, or if the man is just that ridiculously strong. Harry is very fit; his daily workout has been a lifesaver on his mental health journey, but he knows that if he were to try even one of those simple-looking moves, he would fall flat on his arse.

As the song draws to a close, the man gracefully dismounts the pole and finishes his routine on the floor. Harry is again hit with the man’s flexibility and fluidity of movement, the way he makes it look so effortless. As easy as breathing. 

The final note of the music rings out into the club and Harry locks eyes with the performer. From this distance, it’s hard to tell, but something about those eyes draws him in. A spark of something warm settles low in Harry’s belly. He knows those eyes. They feel so familiar. As if they had been staring at him his whole life. 

Before he has a chance to think about it any further, the man disappears in a puff of smoke and another performer takes his place. Although he tries, Harry can’t focus on the dancer before them who is slowly vanishing his clothing to another Muggle song that keeps repeating the phrase “balls and dick.” 

He nudges Dean and asks, “Hey, who was that guy?” There must be a charm around the sofa because the volume lowers enough for them to hear each other without shouting over the music.

“Mystique?” Dean asks, gesturing to the dancer who is now stripped down to just a leopard print thong which is doing little to conceal a massive bulge.

Harry shakes his head. “No, the one before him.”

“Ah, ya mean Phoenix,” Seamus nods sagely. “Thought he might interest ya even though he’s not blond.”

Harry scoffs, “I don’t have a thing for blonds.”

Dean and Seamus share a look. 

“If you want a private dance, you’ll have to talk to Masterson. He’s usually over by the door.”

“No, nothing like that!” Harry can feel himself beginning to blush. “He was just really good. Reminded me of someone.”

“Mm-hmm…” Dean waggling his eyebrows. “Phoenix is even better in private. But, he’s expensive.”

“A person can’t be expensive, love,” Seamus admonishes. “He’s not a commodity. It’s his services that’s expensive. And worth every damn sickle.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. He knows that Dean and Seamus are rather adventurous and open when it comes to sex, but he didn’t think they’d pay for it. Dean is quick to correct him, when he sees Harry’s expression. Fidelius has a strict “no touching” policy that is reinforced through magic. While a performer is working, they cannot engage physically with any of the clientele. Any patron who violates the system is immediately hexed with a nasty case of full-body boils. That’s not to say that money doesn’t change hands in exchange for sexual gratification outside of the club, but if caught doing so, the performers are immediately let go. 

“We got a private dance for our anniversary this year. The traditional gift is silk or fine lace. Neither of us likes wearing it, but on Phoenix…” Dean clears his throat and tries to discreetly adjust himself.

Harry knows how he feels. Phoenix had been a vision in black lace. His milky white skin swathed in a bit of darkness had stood out like the gleaming white ivory keys of a piano against their ebony counterparts. Harry wonders if, like a keyboard, the man’s skin is cool to the touch. But no, Phoenix seems like the type of person who wants the world to think that ice runs through his veins while in reality, they burn brighter than the brightest star.

Engaging with Phoenix—whomever Phoenix is outside of the club—would be like playing with fire. Harry’s drawn in by the appearance, by the promise of warmth, and a little bit of danger. However, he would be in danger of burning while Phoenix, if true to his namesake, would rise from the ashes and begin again. And yet…

Harry mentally shakes himself and fiddles with the glass in his hand just for something to do. The liquid sloshes against the sides, ice clinking gently together. He hasn’t taken a drink and doesn’t plan on it. While Dean and Seamus are good mates, they always forget that Harry doesn’t partake. 

He watches a few more performers come and go from the various stages and platforms. They’re all insanely talented but none captures his interest. Not even the one that has somehow charmed themself to be able to breathe underwater and rhythmically swims naked in a tank filled with glowing stars.

Harry longs to be back at his flat, away from the loud sexualised music and strangers enjoying an acceptable form of voyeurism, but the shit he’ll get for leaving early just isn’t worth it. Yes, he lusted a bit after Phoenix, but he would be lusting after the man if he just saw him walking down the street.

* * *

Draco stifles a groan as he shrugs back into his silk robe. All he wants is to go back to the dressing room, get out of these insane boots, and back into his street clothes. He’s no stranger to form-fitting apparel, but the damned near skin-tight lingerie and six-inch stilettos tend to be uncomfortable around the fifth hour of his shift. The stays in the bustier have been digging into his sides, and he just wants to rip it off. He’s pretty sure that’s how Millie and Pansy feel at the end of the day. He would ask them, but they haven’t spoken in years.

Shaking off the maudlin thought, he heads back out to the main floor of Fidelius to grab a water from the bar before clocking out for the night. Draco’s last private dance of the evening was lucrative, but he feels as though he’s sweated out half of his body weight. 

As he saunters over to the bar, silently cursing the boots, his eye is drawn to the fairly bored-looking man on one of the plush bar stools nursing a drink that’s emanating a bright purple halo. The club enchants the glasses to glow different colours depending on the drinker’s alcohol consumption: green for an alcoholic drink, red for the patron having been cut off (but not knowing it), and purple for non-alcoholic drinks requested by the patron. Only staff members can see the enchantment. It’s a very useful bit of magic and makes it easy for the performers to identify those to entice and those to avoid. 

Normally, Draco wouldn’t spare a second look at the man. However, this is the man he had seen during his last public dance. Many men watch his performance, but Draco had felt this man’s eyes riveted to his body and instantly felt something awaken within him. Something he thought was long dead. 

Draco can’t rationally explain it—he knows that it makes absolutely no sense—but when he felt this man’s gaze, he suddenly felt hope.

The man is fairly nondescript, tall, skin like a bronze statue, a neatly trimmed beard, and hair that Draco is aching to mess up. He may look bored, but Draco remembers the way the man looked at him during the performance. He was aroused by Draco, yes, but he had seemed to be more…appreciative of his abilities, of the skill that went into the dance. 

Draco has worked as an exotic dancer for eight years and knows that such looks are rare. Nine times out of ten, the men who come to Fidelius are just there to watch a hot bloke dance then get off in the loos. This man is different. Before he can think better of it, Draco finds himself sliding into the seat next to the man, allowing the robe to start sliding down a shoulder.

“Gin and tonic,” he drawls at Marco, the bartender. It’s the standard code for water while working. Marco does a bit of discrete charm work, making the carafe of water appear to be a bottle of top-shelf gin. “And another of whatever this gentleman is having.”

The man’s face flushes a pretty, dusky pink. Up close, Draco can finally see that the eyes that ensnared him earlier are a vibrant hazel. A rich chocolate brown rings the pupils, but peaking out, almost underneath, is a brilliant, emerald green. Only one man he knows has eyes that green, but this can’t be him. Potter’s eyes have absolutely no brown in them, and this man isn’t wearing glasses. There’s no spell to correct eyesight as of yet. 

Draco’s stomach does an odd sort of flip when he notices the tell-tale haze of a glamour around the man’s periphery. But, no, these days, Harry Potter is rarely seen in the Wizarding world. Hell, Draco hasn’t seen him in about a decade. The most recent gossip was that Potter had moved to Romania to work on the dragon reserve after his very public breakup with Anthony Brown, the Magpie’s Seeker. Whoever the man sitting before him is, though, he could pass as a much more put-together relative of Potter’s.

The man chuckles. “Shouldn’t _I_ be buying _you_ a drink?” His voice is light and playful, like the feeling of pure joy and almost weightlessness one gets while flying.

Draco smirks to try and keep a blush at bay. Pushing down the feeling that his insides are trying to rearrange themselves to accommodate the growing warmth in his chest, he calls up the old Slytherin defence: charm. He takes a sip of his drink, maintaining eye contact all the while. “Normally, yes. I’d order a drink and tell Marco to put it on your tab. But you’re not actually drinking and…”

He trails off, allowing his eyes to roam the man’s lounging form once again. The face and hands are glamoured, but the rest is all real. And Salazar, the rest of him looks absolutely delectable. Draco is running a hand through his hair before he can stop the nervous gesture. Why is he getting so worked up about some random bloke he’s never seen before?

When he reaches the man’s eyes again, he’s immediately sucked in. His defences shatter, and he finds himself speaking freely.

“There’s something about you. When I saw you earlier, at the end of my dance, I felt your eyes on me. It was so… familiar. As if I’ve felt your eyes on me my entire life.”

The man’s breath catches in his throat, and Draco longs to lean in and nibble his Adam’s apple. Instead, he continues speaking, gesturing to the main floor of the club, “Also, you’re not looking at me the same way the others do, like I’m a piece of meat.”

Draco watches as the man swallows thickly, eyes locked on his own. “Why would I look at you like that?” the man asks, seeming to truly not understand why he would. “You’re a person. Just because you use your beauty to your advantage at work doesn’t give anyone the right to not see you as less.”

Draco feels the tips of his ears burning red and knows that he’s probably smiling like a loon. However, he doesn’t fail to notice that the other man is in a similar state, tracing a finger through the ring of condensation his drink has left behind on the bar. 

Finally, the man continues. “Shouldn’t you be flirting with one of those sleaze bags instead of me? I’m sure they would be much better company, and they’re throwing Galleons around as if they’re going out of style.”

“My shift ended ten minutes ago. Why would I waste my time with them when I could spend it much more enjoyably getting to know you?”

The man blushes again, and this time it overtakes his whole face and neck, disappearing under the collar of his form-fitting shirt. Draco longs to see just how far down that flush goes. He can’t help himself; he’s completely drawn in. He doesn’t do this. He _never_ does this. But it’s as if he’s an asteroid being pulled into this man’s orbit. He feels himself be overtaken by courage, by a boldness that he has never known before. 

Finishing off his drink, Draco leans closer to the man, his voice low. “Take me out to dinner, handsome.” 

The man blinks in surprise. He checks his pocket watch and Draco’s heart sinks, thinking the man will beg off because of the hour. Has he read this all wrong?

Instead, the man says, “It’s almost two in the morning. I don’t think anyone in Diagon is serving dinner by now. However, I know an all-night Muggle diner not too far from here. They have a really good breakfast menu.”

Draco tries to hide his excitement in a small smile, but he’s fairly certain that it comes out as more of a smirk. “I’m going to go change into something more comfortable. Meet me at the back door in fifteen.” He stands slowly, making sure to have the man’s full attention before sauntering off to the employee dressing room.

* * *

Five minutes later finds Harry standing at the back door to Fidelius after bidding Dean and Seamus a very hasty goodbye. It’s only now that Harry realises he may have gotten himself into a preposterous situation. 

His face and the scar on his hand is glamoured. This man he’s supposed to be meeting, Phoenix—bloody hell, he doesn’t even know the man’s real name—has no idea he’ll be meeting Harry Potter. And honestly, Harry isn’t even sure he wants to reveal himself yet. All of his recent dates have either been so starstruck or just looking to have their own ‘Harry Potter encounter’ that the evening was ruined before it even truly began. He doesn’t want that to happen this time. Harry isn’t exactly sure why, but something about Phoenix makes him want the evening to go well. 

Before he can fret any further, the back door of the club swings open and Phoenix emerges, bathed in a warm amber glow from the streetlights. Harry’s breath catches in a way it hadn’t when he had seen the man in nothing but lingerie. The man is now in a pair of well-tailored dark wash jeans and a black t-shirt that Harry’s sure cost more than his entire wardrobe. Somehow, seeing the man dressed down seems almost more intimate than anything else he could be wearing. Phoenix still looks the same, though. He hasn’t removed his glamour and it puts Harry at ease.

“Do you mind if I keep the glamour?” the man asks a bit shyly when he reaches Harry. “It’s just—”

“Of course,” Harry cuts him off. “As long as you’re okay with me being glamoured as well… I am, by the way. I don’t really look like this.”

Phoenix chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I figured as much.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just that, whenever people see me or learn my name, they immediately get this idea in their head of what I’m like and… and it’s just easier this way. I’d actually like for us to get to know each other, without all that in the way.” 

When he looks back up, he notices the man’s intense gaze on him. Harry is immediately lost in those eyes. He had thought they were grey at the bar, but up close, he realises they’re a sea of china blue.

“I understand,” he whispers. “I completely understand that. It’s the same for me, actually. After the war…”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes.

“So,” Phoenix says after a moment, “since you’re not going to tell me your real name, what do I call you?”

Harry shrugs. He hasn’t really given this much thought. When he uses this glamour in the wizarding world, he rarely interacts with anyone who wants his name. At work, he uses his mother’s maiden name purely to throw off the scent of any reporters who would try to follow him into the Muggle world, but even there, everyone just calls him Mr Evans. The last time he had need of an alias was when they were caught by Snatchers while on the run. 

“What should I call you,” he shoots back. “Do you want me to call you by your stage name, Phoenix?”

The man hums thoughtfully. “I think I’ll call you Andrew.”

“Andrew?” Harry rolls his eyes with a smile, “That sounds so formal and posh.”

“Andrew is a perfectly respectable name. Are you not a respectable gentleman?” Phoenix quirks an eyebrow his way.

Harry laughs, not bothering to answer the question. “Fine then. I’ll call you Jake.”

“Jake?” the man asks, barely unable to hide the crack in his voice. “So common!”

Harry laughs and offers the man his arm. “We going to get food or not? It’s not too far, but if it’s all the same, I’d rather apparate.”

Phoenix… _Jake_ grasps Harry’s bicep and they turn, disappearing into the night.

* * *

Although Draco has come a long way since the war, he has never set foot in a Muggle ‘greasy spoon’. Especially not one that stays open at all hours and seems to mostly service drunks or frazzled university students looking for a strong cup of coffee in the wee hours of the morning. The floor is sticky, like the floors of that low budget cinema he and Blaise sometimes go to. He’s sure the utensils and dishes haven’t been cleaned properly, and he would put money on the cook being high. Surprisingly, the coffee is amazing and the bacon sandwich is the best he’s ever eaten. If all Muggle dining establishments have food this good, Draco will have to venture out of the Wizarding districts more often.

The man—Andrew—smiles at him over a plate of chips and proceeds to dump way more vinegar than necessary on top of it. They’ve had an easy conversation going since they arrived, but with the arrival of food came a lull. Draco never minded silences, but the sound of Andrew’s voice is relaxing and he doesn’t want it to stop.

“So,” he asks, “since we’re not doing real identities, what about age? That wouldn’t be giving it away, would it?”

Andrew pops a chip into his mouth, thinking for a moment. “You went to Hogwarts, right?”

Draco nods.

He hums, “The class sizes were so small, it might be easy to identify… I’m between twenty-five and thirty. You?”

“Same.” Draco heaves an internal sigh, thankful that the man is both of age and not an old codger. “We were definitely there at the same time then. At least, there was some overlap. Favourite and least favourite Defense professors are off the table then.”

Andrew laughs, “Most definitely.”

“Okay, so no real names and no school talk,” he says thoughtfully. “Well, you already know what I do for a living. What about you? Or would that give it away too? Are you the Head Auror or something?”

Andrew smirks, “There’s not enough money in Gringotts to convince me to become an Auror. Before the war, I thought…” A dark look flits across his face, but is gone in an instant. “I teach at a primary school.”

Draco raises an eyebrow in surprise. He can tell that Andrew is a kind, patient person, but there are a very limited number of wizarding primary schools in the UK. Most parents educate their children at home or have tutors, as was the case with Draco. With how secretive Andrew has been with his identity, the admission surprises Draco. It would be very easy to get a hold of the names of educators for each school.

“What year?” Draco asks, seeing if he can push his luck.

“All of them.” Andrew’s face lights up. “Usually, there’s just a main teacher for each class who does the core subjects, and the extracurriculars like art, music, and sports are done by separate teachers. This school where I’m working focuses on STEM, so it’s run a bit differently. I’m teaching science. It’s very hands-on and the kids absolutely love it!”

Draco’s brow wrinkles in confusion, and he can almost feel his mother’s hands trying to smooth out the lines from beyond the grave. “But… what…?” he sputters. _What on earth is he talking about?_

For a moment, Andrew looks just as baffled as Draco feels, before understanding washes over his face and he continues. “It’s a Muggle school.”

Andrew goes on to explain what STEM is and goes on to talk about some lessons that he is preparing for the start of the autumn term. It’s utterly fascinating, and Draco finds himself being sucked in. He’s always enjoyed tinkering with things, taking them apart to see how they work and then putting them back together. That’s why his sixth year was so bitter-sweet. Finally fixing that bloody Vanishing Cabinet had been one of his proudest moments. However, the result of this achievement led to one of his worst. 

Muggle education isn’t something he can say that he has ever thought about. But watching the excitement in Andrew’s eyes light him up from the inside out, Draco finds himself wanting to know more. He listens with rapt attention as Andrew describes a typical day in his classroom, how he doesn’t practice magic around the Muggles, but wards his classroom every year against ‘science disasters’ that Draco likens to Seamus Finnegan in Potions class.

Come to think of it, Andrew had been with Finnegan and Thomas at Fidelius. 

Is it possible that Andrew was in the same year? The age fits. However, he could have only made their acquaintance recently. The queer community in the wizarding world is very small. It’s highly unlikely that they wouldn’t have crossed paths before. Especially if his suspicions are correct and Andrew was a Gryffindor. He pushes that thought aside, however, in favour of more interesting questions.

“How did you get into teaching?” The ‘Muggles’ is left out. There’s no need to elaborate.

Andrew flushes. “I um… well, I wouldn’t ever presume to be the smartest person in a room. One of my best friends is loads smarter and would make a great teacher, but I… um… I tutored a bunch of kids while at school. I always enjoyed the more practical lessons than the theoretical. I like working with my hands, and I mostly learn by doing. After the war, I wanted a bit of a break from… well, everything. I got bored just faffing about most of the time, so at my friend’s suggestion, I started volunteering at a local Muggle school. I’d tutor at-risk kids who needed extra help in maths and reading. I was always very good at maths before I found out I was a wizard.”

“You’re a Muggle-born?” Draco asks, the scar on his left arm where the Dark Mark used to be twinges a bit.

“Does it matter?” Andrew shoots back, a challenging look just simmering under the surface.

“Not at all,” he hastens to reassure the man. “I just don’t know many. I’ve always been curious about the Muggle world, though.”

That seems to placate Andrew.

“Well, anyway, I really enjoyed working with the kids and decided to make a career of it. I may work as a Muggle and only venture into the wider Wizarding world with a glamour on, but I do very much still live with magic. I’m close to the friends I made at Hogwarts and live in a Wizarding house. But it’s nice to have that break from it all. To be able to go back to what I knew before getting my letter. Well, not all of it… Not most of it. But if I had been able to go to a school like the one I teach at when I was a kid… things might have been a lot better. I might have even been a better student while at Hogwarts.”

Draco chuckles. “Let me guess, Gryffindor?”

Andrew grins and eats another chip.

* * *

It’s as if someone has charmed the clocks to go faster. Before Harry knows it, the charcoal grey of the London night sky is stained a hazy pinkish-orange. The occasional early morning jogger streaking past the window is slowly being replaced by businessmen and women heading for the underground. 

It may still be a few weeks until school starts up again, but Harry really needs to start preparing his classroom and was planning to at least swing by and take inventory later in the day. Sleep is a necessity if he has any hope of keeping a proper tally. 

However, he really doesn’t want the night to end. While the entire evening with the man he’s referring to as Jake has been flirtatious and almost date-like, Harry isn’t the type of person to go home with a bloke on the first date. Thankfully, it appears as though Jake isn’t either.

He’s enjoyed listening to Jake’s lilting aristocratic accent. It briefly reminds him of Malfoy’s, except without the cold disdain. The man’s broad smile warms eyes that could easily be mistaken for ice and removes the sharpness of his angular face. Harry longs to reach out and run his thumb along the prominent cheekbone and bury his hand in those dark locks. He’s sure they will feel like silk. 

Harry feels as if he’s been let in on a secret. Jake is confident and easily commands the attention of everyone in the room, but is so different from Phoenix. It would have been so easy for Harry to believe that what he saw at the club was all there was to this man—an alluring body and an insane amount of athleticism. However, the hours they have spent together have reminded Harry yet again to not judge someone on his first impression. 

Jake had seemed a bit surprised at Harry’s lack of morbid curiosity of how someone ends up working as an exotic dancer. With Hermione as a best friend, Harry has always kept an open mind regarding expressions of sexuality and using one's body for profit. Shucking the prejudices of the Dursleys took some time, but taking the year after the war to focus on himself, to learn about his own desires were essential in doing so.

Harry is pulled from his thoughts as they arrive at the Apparition point, and Jake hesitates, playing almost nervously with the hem of his t-shirt. Harry feels a warmth in his chest grow to match the bloom of a blush that is surely staining his cheeks. 

“I had a really great time,” Harry ventures, drawing on his Gryffindor courage. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Jake looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes and, holy Merlin—how is it even possible that the man’s eyelashes can be almost pornographic? Harry wants to kiss Jake’s eyelids and feel the lashes flutter against his skin.

“Thank you for the meal and the company,” Jake murmurs. “It was nice to meet someone who…”

“Isn’t a gross perv who thinks throwing Galleons at you will earn true affection?”

Jake barks a laugh, throwing his head back in a way that reminds Harry so much of Sirius that it almost hurts. “That,” he says, wiping a tear from those gorgeous lashes, “and someone who actually listens when I speak.”

Harry can almost feel his heart break in that moment. How is it that someone so intelligent and engaging as Jake can be mistaken as just another pretty face? How many people have made him feel inferior just because of his profession? How many times has he been underestimated?

“I’ll always listen to you, Jake,” he almost whispers before he can think to stop the words.

The earnest look in Jake’s eyes emboldens him, and he reaches out for the man’s hand, grasping it with his own. Jake’s hands are strong, but they appear slim and delicate, like those of a pianist. Harry gives it what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. He longs to kiss the inside of Jake’s wrist, to feel the man’s heart rate increase, to learn the shape and feel of each finger, to hold that hand in his for all time. 

Harry wants to pull Jake into a kiss, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Jake to feel as though this is what he was after. If anything is to happen between them, Jake will need to be the one to initiate. Harry will not take advantage.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.

“So, since we aren’t doing real names, where should I tell my owl to deliver an invitation to another night out?”

The blush on Harry’s cheeks deepens. “You wouldn’t happen to have a mobile, would you?”

Jake smirks and pulls a sleek, touchscreen phone out of his back pocket and hands it to Harry. His trouser pockets must have an undetectable extension charm on them because Harry is sure he was unable to make out the phone’s outline when he briefly ogled Jake’s arse earlier in the evening. 

Harry quickly saves his number and shoots off a text to his own phone, which chirps in his own pocket. “There,” he hands the phone back to Jake, “now we have each other’s numbers. Give me a shout whenever. I’d love to do this again.”

Right as Harry is about to regretfully end the evening, Jake leans in and places a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth, murmuring a quick, “Talk soon, Andrew.” He steps back and Disapparates on the spot—a smile and dreamy look still plastered across his face.

Harry stands for a moment in the growing light, fingertips lightly touching the place where Jake’s lips made contact with his own. Merlin, he is going to fall for that boy, isn’t he?

* * *

“Emergency!” Draco shouts as he lets the door to the flat he and Blaise share slam shut behind him. “Level Five emergency!”

Blaise—who is still wearing his make-up from the club—doesn’t even spare him a glance as Draco stalks over to the living area and collapses face-first onto their sofa. It’s a common enough occurrence that Blaise has learned to tune out most of Draco’s theatrics. Usually, when the declared emergency starts out at a ‘Level Five’ there isn’t actually anything to be concerned about.

A lazy flick of Draco’s wand cancels his glamour and pauses the level Blaise was playing on Legend of Zelda. Blaise lets out an indignant squawk and turns to glare daggers at his friend.

“Was that really necessary?”

“Well,” Draco scoffs, “I’m dealing with a crisis over here and you weren’t paying attention!”

Rolling his eyes, Blaise unfreezes the game and continues playing. “On a scale of climbing a tree and lying in wait just to jump out at Potter, to staying up all night to sew a Dementor costume by hand, where does this rank as a Dramatic Draco Freakout?”

“I do not freak out,” Draco sputters, trying to reach over from his prone position and flick Blaise in the ear, but he misses. 

“You do when it’s about Potter.”

Draco slides onto the floor beside Blaise, snatches the controller from his hands, and starts playing. “This has absolutely nothing to do with ‘The Chosen One’.”

“Isn’t that who you left the club with?” 

Draco shoots him an odd look. “Um, no? Why would you think that guy was Potter?”

Blaise scoffs. “Desi guy, hanging out with Thomas and Finnegan, right?”

“Yeah. But he wasn’t wearing glasses, and I’m pretty sure I would have noticed the scar. Besides, Andrew looks nothing like Potter.”

“Scars can be glamoured, as you well know.” 

The thought gives Draco pause. Andrew’s face and one of his hands had been glamoured. All places Potter has distinctive scarring. But still…

Blaise grabs the controller from his slack hands. “You and I are glamoured almost every day. Has anyone once recognised you?”

“Well, no, but I—”

“You just enhanced the Black genes and suppressed the Malfoy, I know.” Blaise rolls his eyes and finishes the level with a self-satisfied smirk. “Maybe he did something like that.”

“That still doesn’t explain not wearing glasses.” Draco pauses, a thought occurring to him. “Why do you so badly want this to be Potter?”

He’s long suspected that his friends have put a wager on his fascination with Potter.

“I don’t give a shit if it’s Potter or not, but you must admit he's the only bloke you ever have 'Level Five' emergencies about.”

“I do not!” Draco shouts, utterly scandalised. “Name one time—”

Blaise levels a stare at Draco that brokers no argument. “Tuesday, you declared an emergency because that article speculating on Potter’s whereabouts and mental state now that his ex is engaged overshadowed the piece about the Falcons’ new head coach.”

“They relegated that article to the sports section!” Draco argues, ignoring Blaise’s bland look of scepticism. “Corijn won England the World Cup last year. This is a big get! It should have been front-page news. But, oh no, stupid Potter being all sad that his ex has moved on… You may have a point. But Andrew isn’t Potter. I’m sure of it.” 

“So, what’s the emergency then?” Blaise asks, lazily flicking his wand to remove the game cartridge and put it back in its rightful place.

Flopping down to lay his head in Blaise’s lap he murmurs, “I kissed him.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Blaise shoves him off and looks down on him like he’s an idiot.

Draco scrubs his face with a hand before throwing his forearm over his eyes like the dramatic little bitch he will never admit that he is. “I kissed Andrew, at the end of our…date, hangout thing.”

“That is not an emergency.”

Draco can’t see Blaise but is sure that the man is pinching the bridge of his nose.

“But Blaise, I don’t know what to do?” he whines. He knows that he’s spiralling, but he just can’t stop. “What if he didn’t think of tonight as a date? What if he just wanted friendly conversation, and I completely blew it? I mean, yes, he said that he had a good time and that he’d love to meet up again, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Wait, so you didn’t shag him?”

“What? No!” Draco is positively outraged. Blaise has known him since they were children; the man must know that he doesn’t do casual. Anymore. “He took me out to eat, and we just talked.”

“For three hours?” The voice is sceptical and irritating enough that Draco sits up again in order to have the proper amount of room to gesticulate as wildly as he wishes.

“Yes. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Blaise chuckles, throwing up his hands in surrender. “But you were together for three hours, and he didn’t try to make a pass at you?”

“No, he was a perfect gentleman. Didn’t even do that pitying ‘How’d you get into stripping’ conversation. What I do for a living didn’t seem to matter. It seemed like he genuinely wanted to get to know me but… What if I cocked it all up?”

And that’s the crux of it, really. Draco hasn’t allowed himself to be as free with himself as he was with Andrew in many years. He hasn’t found himself truly caring what other people think of him or even wanting to get to know anyone in such a long time. He’s always been that shy boy who hides behind bravado and cultural superiority. He’s used to hiding all of his insecurities behind a veneer. All that practice growing up definitely lent a hand in creating his stage persona. However, with Andrew, he finds himself wanting to chip away at the façade and be real with this familiar-feeling stranger. He’s sure that he will do something to mess everything up. The glamour is helping for now, but what would happen if Andrew ever wanted to remove that protective layer between the two of them. Surely, it would lead to nothing good.

“Did he kiss you back?” Blaise breaks him from his spiralling thoughts.

“I didn’t really give him the chance to.” Draco groans, hiding his face in his hands. “I Disapparated right after.”

“Draco!”

“I was freaking out, okay?” he bites out, knowing Blaise will appreciate the honesty. “Happy now?” 

Blaise doesn’t bother answering him. “So, are you going to see him again?”

“If he doesn’t think I’m an absolute twat,” he sighs.

“That would be an accurate description of you,” Blais quips,

“Oh, do shut up!” Draco shoves him but smiles a little.

Draco’s back pocket vibrates several times in quick succession. Only three people have his number and one of them is sitting next to him.

Draco nearly rips his trousers trying to get the phone out of his back pocket. “It’s him,” he breathes, after checking the notification.

Hey Jake  
_Sent 06:45_

It’s Andrew  
_Sent 06:45_

Just wanted to make sure you got home okay  
_Sent 06:45_

“Shit,” Draco whispers before typing out a swift reply.

I did. Thank you.  
_Read 06:46_

I had a really great time with you tonight.  
_Sent 06:47_

Me too.  
_Read 06:47_

Look, I know this may be a bit forward. And feel free to tell me off or just completely ignore this, but at the diner, you mentioned a garden you liked…  
_Sent 06:48_

Kew?  
_Read 06:48_

Yeah! Kew Gardens  
_Sent 06:48_

I was wondering if you’d like to show it to me.  
_Sent 06:48_

Maybe on your next day off?  
_Sent 06:48_

Draco stares at the phone for a long moment, his brain short-circuiting. Is this actually happening? Is Andrew asking him out on a date?

The phone is snatched from his hands, and he watches helplessly as Blaise shoots off a text.

Wednesday at ten, meet me outside the Victoria Gate.  
_Read 06:51_

Won’t that be rather early for you?  
_Sent 06:51_

Don’t fuck up your sleep schedule on my account.  
_Sent 06:52_

“Aww…” Blaise croons, “he’s considerate!”

Draco tries to grab his phone but Blaise casts a lazy Petrificus at him.

For your first time in the gardens, you’ll want plenty of time to explore.  
_Read 06:53_

Besides, it’s my favourite place in the city.  
_Read 06:53_

There’s also this wonderful invention called the Wide-Eye potion.  
_Read 06:53_

Ha! Very true. I’ve used it many mornings when coffee just wasn’t enough and the kids were driving me mental  
_Sent 06:54_

Oof. Reason 394 why I don’t have children.  
_Read 06:54_

lol!  
_Sent 06:54_

They’re not all that bad, but yeah, I’m sure that I should own stock in Wide-Eye.  
_Sent 06:54_

You can’t own stock in an over the counter potion.  
_Read 06:55_

Hell, you could brew it at home.   
_Read 06:55_

You obviously didn’t see me in Potions class.  
_Sent 06:55_

I’m pants at potions.  
_Sent 06:55_

Snape hated me.  
_Sent 06:55_

Blaise chuckles and Draco swears to himself that he will kill his best friend.

I mean, Snape hated a lot of people.  
_Read 06:56_

True  
_Sent 06:56_

So…Wednesday.  
_Sent 06:57_

Wednesday.  
_Read 06:57_

What does one wear to a garden?  
_Sent 06:58_

I should probably just Google it  
_Sent 06:58_

Well, it’s not tea with the Minister, but you don’t want to look like a tourist either.  
_Read 06:58_

Should I just send you photos of my outfits and let you decide for me?  
_Sent 06:59_

I mean… 😏  
_Read 06:59_

I’m always down for classy photos of a bloke dressed up and asking my opinion.   
_Read 06:59_

Alright, it’s a date  
_Sent 06:59_

That is…um…  
_Sent 07:00_

If you want it to be  
_Sent 07:00_

Again, feel free to tell me to fuck off  
_Sent 07:01_

Shit. Sorry  
_Sent 07:01_

No, that would be nice.  
_Read 07:02_

It’s a date.  
_Read 07:02_

Awesome   
_Sent 07:03_

Well, I’m off to bed  
_Sent 07:03_

Goodnight, Jake! XX  
_Sent 07:03_

P.S. I’m so glad I met you.  
_Sent 07:04_

Goodnight. X  
_Read 07:04_

“You’re welcome,” Blaise drawls, tossing the phone onto the sofa beside him. He stands, stretching his long lanky limbs and giving him a salacious wink. “Have fun, lover boy,” he quips and saunters out of the room, cancelling the Petrificus and leaving Draco to dive for his phone and pray to any made-up deity that might be listening that Blaise didn’t embarrass him too terribly.

* * *

The late August heat has yet to become oppressive and for that, Harry is thankful. A discrete Cooling Charm will be necessary later in the day, but for now, none is needed. 

He fidgets a bit, shifting from foot-to-foot and twirling his sunglasses between his fingers while resisting the urge to check his mobile yet again. He’s early. About fifteen minutes early, which is something that never happens. Harry is used to Apparating somewhere with barely a minute to spare. Time always seems to get away from him, but he’s made an effort today and now feels a right twat just hanging about at the entrance of a Muggle public garden. He was able to pilfer a few glossy brochures and skimmed them quickly before losing interest. 

He tries to push down the churning feeling in his stomach. He probably has nothing to worry about. Ever since their meeting, Harry has spoken to Jake every day. Well, they’ve texted. They haven’t actually called each other. Harry doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that yet. However, he’s found himself trying to bring back memories of Jake’s voice, the posh lilt that almost feels as if it could cut glass.

So many things about Jake appear sharp on the surface, and yet, Harry has been given glimpses of a much softer man underneath. He feels his face starting to heat as memories of their brief kiss play through his mind. The gentle brush of a firm mouth upon his own slightly chapped lips. The scent of fresh cotton and a hint of lemon. Long, soft fingers playing with his own. The milk-white skin against his own golden-brown. Jake’s eyes seem to burn a butane blue, warm with desire. 

Harry shivers despite the heat and tries to focus on looking calm, cool, and completely at ease whenever Jake shows up. No matter how convincing his glamour, the charm does nothing to hide nerves. Both he and Jake were very clear about their desires to keep their true identities hidden for now, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hide anything else from the man. Something within him wants to trust Jake implicitly. He wants to tell the man everything about his day. He wants to open himself up in a way he has only ever done with his closest friends, begrudgingly over the course of almost two decades. 

Those friends seemed to have reservations when he mentioned Jake to them. His standing Tuesday dinner with Ron and Hermione had started the way it always did: Hermione greeting him at the door with baby Hugo on her hip. An excitable Rose ready to drag him into the lounge and rope him into playing blocks. Ron shouts advice on their structure from the kitchen as he places the finishing touches on their meal. 

When they asked him about his plans for the week, Harry had mentioned around a mouthful of baked ziti that he would be meeting a friend at Kew. Hermione had shot Ron a slightly wary look heavy with meaning—one of those looks couples seem to share, communicating without words—before launching into a memory about visiting the gardens with her parents once before Hogwarts. Harry found himself struggling to focus while trying to suss out just what had Ron looking so uncomfortable but promptly forgot when Hugo launched a noodle off his little plastic spoon and onto Harry’s cheek. The rest of the meal quickly devolved into laughter and looks of fond exasperation from Hermione as the men got into a small-scale food fight with the children.

It was an hour later, with the dining room cleaned up, dishes charmed to wash themselves, and Hermione tucking the little ones into bed when Ron finally brought it up. They were leaning against the railing of the back porch, Ron with one of the craft beers he and George had been brewing, and Harry with a lemonade, enjoying the fizz of the drink and the crisp night air that promised autumn and cooler weather to come. 

“So,” Ron prompted, “this the guy from the club?”

“Hmm?” Harry quickly took a drink trying to buy himself a bit more time before having to explain the oddness of the situation to his best friend.

“Dean came into the shop yesterday and mentioned that you had gone out with him and Seamus over the weekend.”

Harry snorted. “More like they kidnapped me.”

A smile twitched at the corner of Ron’s lips. Ron knew better than most just how hard the breakup and subsequent media backlash had been for Harry. Hell, he probably would have dragged Harry out of the house himself that weekend if he hadn’t been watching the kids while Hermione had a much-needed night out. 

“And you went home with a stripper.”

“Dancer,” Harry corrected automatically. “And we didn’t go home together, we just had dinner. Well… breakfast? We ate together.”

Ron looked at him sceptically and took another swig of his beer. “So you’re, what, dating an exotic dancer called Jake?”

“Well, we’re going on a date. We haven’t had the ‘what are we’ conversation yet.”

“And you trust this bloke to not go running to the press about his date with Harry Potter?” Ron asked, eyebrow raised.

“He doesn’t know it’s me,” Harry mumbled into his glass.

At Ron’s incredulous look, Harry went on, explaining about his and Jake’s agreement to remain glamoured. He had to admit it did sound a bit far-fetched, like something out of a bad rom-com, but he was enjoying getting to know Jake without ‘The Saviour of the Wizarding World’ getting in the way. He could just be Harry, something he rarely got to be in magical society. There was no pressure and things were able to build naturally. For once since the breakup with Anthony, he was starting to feel like himself again.

Harry had been a bit apprehensive that Ron would say something disparaging about Jake’s profession, but what came out of his mouth made him let out a startled laugh.

“What if he’s super-old?”

“What?”

Ron looked pained. “Harry, this guy is glamoured. What if he’s old? Like, old enough to be your granddad?”

Harry was thankful he hadn’t taken a drink just then or the fizzy liquid would have shot out of his nose. “I’ve seen him dance, Ron. There’s no way anyone over fifty can move that well.”

“Alright,” Ron countered, “but what if he’s ugly?”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“Fine,” he huffed, “but what if he turns out to be someone you hate? Why else would he keep his identity a secret?”

“I’m keeping my identity a secret.”

“Yeah, but there’s no one else as famous as you who has that kind of time on his hands. This guy could be anybody. What if it’s Malfoy?”

Harry had sobered in that moment, remembering how those china blue eyes felt on him, how familiar they were. Could they be—? But no. That would be ridiculous.

“I don’t hate Malfoy, Ron,” he had murmured, staring into the bottom of his glass. “I let go of hate that day in Myrtle's bathroom.”

Harry blinks, bringing himself out of the memory of the previous night as Jake comes into view, looking for all the world like he’s just stepped out of the pages of a Muggle fashion magazine. His dark brown hair is effortlessly styled in that ‘I woke up like this’ fashion that Harry’s natural state desperately tries and fails to emulate. The long lines of Jake’s body are beautifully accentuated by perfectly pressed chinos and a crisp blue, short-sleeved dress shirt that makes his eyes pop. Merlin, he’s a vision of relaxed elegance, and Harry suddenly feels like a potato next to such beauty. 

Jake smirks at Harry in a way that has him wondering for the briefest moment if Ron had been right—he and Ginny often joked that Ron was an unwitting Seer—but again dismisses the thought in lieu of losing himself in the feeling of being this man’s singular focus. After a shy hello, Jake smoothly takes his hand and leads them away from the Victoria Gate along the high wall that borders the botanical gardens, before stopping in front of an arched doorway with a small horse sculpture atop it. Harry thinks the door looks suspiciously like a work entrance.

“Are we breaking in?” he asks with a light chuckle. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time he had used an unlocking charm to get in someplace through the back door, but none of those places had ever been Muggle. 

“Wizarding entrance,” Jake explains with a small grin. He presses his wand—hawthorn, Harry thinks, but the wand is stowed away too quickly for him to be certain—to the wood of the door and it swings open, granting them entrance to the gardens. “Kew’s not very popular among wizards as it’s literally next to a Muggle neighbourhood, but it’s beautiful. The herbologists on staff have charmed the gardens so we can experience them in any season or weather, without being bothered by any Muggles. My mother used to bring me here when I was younger, especially in winter when our garden was dormant. She loved the roses. We’d spend the whole day here.”

Stepping onto the path, Harry is immediately overwhelmed by the immensity of the place. He could probably spend days within the walls of the garden and still not see it all. There is green everywhere, assaulting his vision. More green than he ever thought possible in the entirety of London. Trees and rows of flowers and neatly maintained walkways span out infinitely as far as the eye can see. It’s as if the noise of the city falls away as soon as he walks through the door. It’s gorgeous. 

“You said you’d never been?” Jake asks, bringing him back to reality.

Harry takes in a sharp breath. “No. My aunt used to come here all the time. Probably still does.”

“You’re not in contact with her?” Jake’s hand on the small of Harry’s back helps to anchor him against the flood of memories threatening to crash around him like ocean waves. 

“No,” he scoffs, swallowing back the taste of bile. “I’m somewhat friendly with my cousin and his family, but he didn’t reach out until his daughter started displaying signs of magic.”

Harry isn’t quite sure why he’s sharing this with Jake. Only Andromeda knows. He asked her for advice when Dudley called four years ago. If anyone knew about toxic families, it was her. But here with Jake, Harry feels almost compelled to speak, to unburden himself and confide in this man he barely knows but longs to know better.

“I take it they’re not fans of Wizards.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Harry sighs. He doesn’t want to be thinking about the Dursleys when he's with Jake. He wants to enjoy the plants and scenic land. “My cousin isn’t so bad anymore. But my aunt and uncle…”

Jake flashes him a grim smile, “I can imagine. My aunt and uncle were horrendous. What about your parents?”

Harry scratches the back of his neck, briefly wishing his hair was down so he could run his hand through it. “Never met them. They died in the first war.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” Jake murmurs, grasping his hand, his eyes a pool of sympathy.

Harry shrugs it off—he’s used to it by now—but something in the way Jake looks at him makes it feel less like pity and more like understanding. He frowns as he remembers something Jake mentioned before.

“You said your mum _used_ to come here in winter…” he doesn’t finish the question, already knowing the answer.

Jake looks away as if willing things to be different. “She’s always here. After she passed…” he falters for a moment and Harry can see him desperately trying to regain control before exhaling and allowing himself to be vulnerable. “She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes scattered somewhere beautiful, so I brought her here, where she can see her favourite roses.”

Harry has never been particularly good with words and isn’t quite sure what to say so as not to ruin this moment between them. But actions, he can do. He reaches out tentatively and grasps Jake’s warm, slender hand in his own and laces their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly.

“Will you show me?” he whispers.

With a nod and a hint of a soft smile, Jake leads him down the path.

* * *

Warm golden light filters through leaves that dance overhead in the breeze. They’re sitting on a conjured blanket in a small corner of the Redwood Grove. Draco has charmed their area to look and feel like a morning in early autumn. Andrew had mentioned in passing that it’s his favourite season, and Draco couldn’t deny him the experience. 

Andrew quietly vanishes the remains of their shared lunch before leaning back on his elbows to gaze up at the trees shielding them from the sun. Draco can’t help admiring his muscular form. He’s sure that the toned biceps are only the tip of the iceberg. There have been very few times in his life where Draco wished he possessed the ability to draw, but this is definitely one of them. He wants to capture the angle of the man’s square jaw, the curve of his neck and Adam’s apple that he longs to lick, the strip of bronze skin that’s unintentionally on display thanks to Andrew’s Henley riding up. He wants to sear the image into his mind forever. 

The man is beautiful, yes, but it’s the openness on his face, the way he’s opened himself up to Draco so completely—well, except for his name and actual appearance—that has really drawn him in. And completely unexpectedly, Draco has felt drawn to share everything about himself as well. He isn’t used to it. He keeps everything close to the chest, only revealing parts of himself if it becomes necessary and when there is some gain to be had in return. And there is gain here—there is the potential for so much gain—but that slow, methodical way in which he usually shares himself seems to have abandoned him. If Andrew asks, he wants to answer. He wants Andrew to see him. To really see _him_. Not the baby Death Eater. Not the disgraced Malfoy heir. Draco. Just Draco. 

He takes another swig of his Butterbeer and swallows slowly, savouring the flavour. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” he asks, gesturing to the bottle. 

Andrew just shakes his head and takes a final drink of his water before vanishing the cup as well. “I don’t drink.”

This shouldn’t surprise Draco—Andrew’s glass at Fidelius was glowing purple, and he didn’t offer to take Draco to a late-night pub or anywhere else that served alcohol—but it does, a bit. Butterbeer can barely be considered alcoholic. Draco raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. They’ve already discussed their dead parents. Hell, he basically introduced Andrew to his mother when they spent half an hour in the rose garden and he rambled on about past trips to Kew and fond memories. But this almost feels too intimate an issue to pry.

“I used to drink Butterbeer and a bit of Firewhisky,” Andrew starts with a faraway look in his eyes, “but after the war, I was so angry…” He’s quiet for a long moment then takes a somewhat ragged breath and pushes through. “I grew up with my mum’s family. My uncle was… _is_ an alcoholic. He hid it well, but after he got past a certain number of drinks he would get…angry. I never seemed to be able to get out of the way fast enough.”

Draco feels a cold wave of dread rush over him. He suffered the misplaced rage of Voldemort and his aunt several times during their occupation of the manor and is all too familiar with the fear of those who you once trusted to protect you.

He scoots his hand closer to Andrew’s and brushes their fingers together gently, waiting quietly for the man to continue.

“I was afraid that I would become like him. The anger was there, but when I had all my wits about me, I could keep it at bay. So, I don’t drink.”

“Are you still angry?” Draco asks just loud enough to be heard.

Andrew shakes his head and allows their fingers to intertwine. “No, not really. There are days, but exercise and seeing a Mind-Healer have helped. Not drinking does tend to alienate you a bit. My ex didn’t get it. He really enjoyed going out, but I always found myself just wishing I was back home. I have to be energetic and excited for my students all week. On my days off, I really just prefer to relax or maybe play some Quidditch. Small groups in quiet settings are more my thing.”

Draco gives him a gentle smile. He feels very much the same way. He may work in the entertainment industry, but unlike Blaise, he’s much happier at home with a good book. He listens as Andrew explains about being dragged out to the club that weekend, about being pulled out of a minor depressive state and brought to Fidelius as a means of distraction. Draco wonders if it has something to do with the ex, but doesn’t push for more information. It’s not that he doesn’t want to know, it’s just that Andrew has opened up so much in the last hour and he doesn’t want to make the man uncomfortable. It’s not as if this will be the last time they speak. They have plenty of time.

“At least one good thing came of that, though,” Andrew concludes.

“What’s that?”

“I met you.”

Draco can feel a blush flash high in his cheeks, staining the tips of his ears and settling within his chest in a warm bloom.

Later in the Bamboo Garden, the sky charmed the fury orange of a spring sunset, they walk hand in hand. Andrew has been quiet since the Redwood Grove, but he seems less melancholy and more contemplative. The silence that stretches between them is comforting, familiar in a way. Like wrapping your favourite fuzzy blanket around your shoulders on the first cool autumn morning and sipping from a mug of perfectly brewed tea. 

“Do you work tonight?” Andrew asks, breaking the silence.

Draco shakes his head. “I’m off Wednesdays and Thursdays. But I will rehearse for a while. I’m working on a new routine and am updating the set I do for private parties. I have one this weekend and need to make sure I’m prepared.”

“You will be.”

He smiles, a bit taken back at the confidence Andrew has in him.

“It’s clear that you love what you do,” Andrew continues. “You’re wickedly talented.”

It’s as if Andrew knows exactly what to say to make him blush. Draco briefly wonders if his cheeks will become permanently stained red.

“What’s your favourite thing about dancing?”

Draco stops, stunned for a moment, dropping Andrew’s hand. He’s never met anyone like Andrew before. Someone so unconcerned with the nature of his profession. Someone who doesn’t seem like they would try to talk him out of working as an exotic dancer.

“That’s…not what people normally ask,” he stutters out.

Andrew shrugs. “Well, most people are idiots.”

Draco doesn’t even try to hide the lopsided smile that slowly spreads across his face. He’s reminded of the years of dance classes in the manor’s ballroom that started almost as soon as he was able to walk. How he loved the movements, the give and take, the feeling of flying, while still firmly on the ground. He remembers sneaking into a Muggle theatre with Blaise and watching Mrs Zabini perform in an Opéra-Ballet. He was only seven, but already fluent in French. His young mind was ensnared by the bright costumes and the elegant movements of the ballerinas. He longed to dance like them but knew that Father would never allow it. Ballroom was only allowed because it was one of the marks of a good pure-blood gentleman. All other forms of dance were considered too feminine. During the summer before fifth year, Draco would sneak out with Blaise and Pansy to go to Muggle dance clubs just so they could get away from it all and lose themselves in the music. 

After the war, Draco was left knutless. His father rotted in Azkaban, and his mother was not long for the world. He needed a way to make a living and was well aware that no one in the Wizarding world would be in any way inclined to hire anyone with the surname Malfoy. However, he had enough pride left that he refused to do something he had little interest in just to make a living. For the first time in his life, he was free to do as he chose. He had no master, no one to answer to but himself, and by Salazar, he was going to find something he enjoyed. 

Dancing in the Muggle strip clubs had been good money and experience. However, several years later when Fidelius opened its doors, he knew that he needed to work there. While no one had forgotten the association of the Malfoy name, the club’s policy of having all dancers glamoured made it a moot point. He was good at his job, and he loved what he did.

“Dancing is like…” Draco starts, desperate for the words to convey just how strongly he feels about it all. “Dancing is like flying. Not that first bit, where your body is rushing up into the air quickly and your mind protests for a moment that you weren’t made for flight—if you were, you would have been born with wings. Rather, it’s like when you finally adjust to the height, to the wind in your face, and you realise that you’ve just defied gravity and that if you’ve successfully done that, you could do almost anything. Your possibilities are endless. You’re almost weightless. You’re free…” Draco sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m not explaining this well…”

“No, that’s perfect,” Andrew breathes. His warm puff of air ghosts across Draco’s cheek. 

How on earth did they end up so close? Barely two inches separating them. Draco finds himself lost yet again in Andrew’s eyes. The brown that seems to be hiding an emerald green. He has no idea how a colour like that could have occurred in nature. He wonders if he can coax out the green like one would the amber for a werewolf or the gold of a veela. 

“It makes complete sense,” Andrew continues. “When you’re dancing, you look free.”

Draco may never know who acted first; however, the next thing he knows is that his lips are on Andrews. It’s not a power struggle or a fight for dominance. It’s soft, and warm, and tentative. It’s gently exploratory, but mostly it’s an exchange of feelings, of emotions. Kissing Andrew is like waking up slowly on a weekend morning, the sun softly filtering through the drapes, and the smell of a good breakfast awaiting you in the kitchen. Kissing Andrew is like coming home.

* * *

Andrew, how do you do it all day?  
_Sent 15:47_

Do what?  
_Read 15:47_

Teach.  
_Sent 15:47_

I’m teaching choreography to a few of the other guys.  
_Sent 15:48_

They’re worse than children.  
_Sent 15:48_

LOL!  
_Read 15:48_

I sincerely doubt that.  
_Read 15:48_

I was never this insufferable as a student.  
_Sent 15:49_

Let me guess…  
_Read 15:49_

Top of your class.  
_Read 15:49_

Nearly.  
_Sent 15:49_

Do I detect some frustration there?  
_Read 15:50_

No.  
_Sent 15:50_

Well, maybe a little.  
_Sent 15:50_

There were a few years where I had other things on my mind.  
_Sent 15:50_

Yeah… me too  
_Read 15:51_

Also, you have summers off.  
_Sent 15:52_

Lucky bastard.  
_Sent 15:52_

Common misconception  
_Read 15:52_

I spend my summers getting my classroom ready, planning out lessons, and experiments, taking continuing ed courses and sitting through the most boring meetings. Like now.  
_Read 15:53_

Oh, Andrew! Texting in class? How naughty.  
_Sent 15:53_

You going to punish me for it?  
_Read 15:53_

So, what’s the meeting about?  
_Sent 15:55_

Changes to the student dress code, an updated fire drill plan, and then a “team-building” exercise.  
_Read 15:55_

Ew  
_Sent 15:56_

Avada me now.  
_Read 15:56_

Oh fuck, they’re making us do a scavenger hunt.  
_Read 15:56_

Is there a cool prize?  
_Sent 15:56_

A pizza party.  
_Read 15:53_

That’s not… terrible…  
_Sent 15:56_

The team who won last year was given ONE 5£ pizza and a litre of soda that had been in storage for who knows how long.  
_Read 15:57_

Gross.  
_Sent 15:58_

I thought you taught at a posh school.  
_Sent 15:58_

Oh, they have money. They just spend it on the facility and tech. Not us.  
_Read 15:58_

Hey, at least it’s something. We do a potluck around Yule, but that’s about it.  
_Sent 15:59_

Our team building is teaching each other choreography or shit-talking someone’s costume.  
_Sent 15:59_

Wanna trade?  
_Sent 15:59_

As much as I’d love to not be here, I’m sure that I would make a complete twat of myself trying to do what you do.  
_Read 15:59_

You’re pretty fit. I bet you’d pick it up quickly.  
_Sent 16:00_

Being sorted into teams.  
_Read 16:01_

Not as fun as the Hat.  
_Read 16:01_

Good luck with the teaching!  
_Read 16:01_

Good luck! Talk soon.  
_Sent 16:02_

* * *

Got my class lists today  
_Sent 13:22_

I’m 99% sure one of them is a wizard  
_Sent 13:22_

Yeah?  
_Read 13:30_

They got into trouble a lot last year with their lead teacher.  
_Sent 13:32_

Mostly for acting out. Some odd shit if I remember correctly  
_Sent 13:32_

How often does that happen?  
_Read 13:33_

You getting a student who’s Wix?  
_Read 13:33_

Not often.  
_Sent 13:34_

I’ve only had one in the six years I’ve been teaching and that was my cousin’s kid. They did that on purpose in case she had any accidental magic at school  
_Sent 13:34_

So, what exactly about this new kid tipped you off?  
_Read 13:35_

Stuff falls off shelves when he’s upset.  
_Sent 13;35_

He was accused of turning another student’s hair blue.  
_Sent 13:35_

I did that once  
_Sent 13:35_

Turned a kid’s hair blue?  
_Read 13:36_

Teacher, when I was in primary school  
_Sent 13:36_

How’s rehearsal going?  
_Sent 13:36_

Not too bad. Just me and Mystique today. We’re doing a Stag Party on Saturday.  
_Read 13:37_

Fun  
_Sent 13:38_

It’ll pay well. Plus it’ll be at the club, so no travel which is always a bonus.  
_Read 13:39_

People can rent out the club?  
_Sent 13:39_

Everything has a price.  
_Read 13:39_

No, they don’t do that on weekends.  
_Read 13:40_

Fidelius has private rooms.   
_Read 13:40_

They’re charmed to expand to fit the number of people in the room.  
_Read 13:40_

Like the sofas on the main floor?  
_Sent 13:41_

_Exactly._  
_Read 13:41_

* * *

Draco collapses onto the bed, having vanished his clothes and sending them to the hamper. His jade green duvet is just as inviting as always, welcoming him into its plush embrace. He rolls, swaddling himself in comfort and breathes deeply, trying to calm his racing mind. It’s a quarter past six, he should be asleep, but his brain just doesn’t want to stop whirring. He would go bother Blaise, but the man had fallen asleep even before they stepped out of the Floo. All of his thoughts are centred around Andrew. Might as well seek distraction there.

A wandless _Accio_ summons his mobile. He barely manages to wiggle an arm free of the blankets before it smacks him in the face. The school term doesn’t start for another week, but he remembers Andrew mentioning that he was an early riser, so he fires off a text and hopes for the best.

Are you awake?  
_Read 06:15_

Yeah. What’s up?  
_Sent 06:15_

Would you mind terribly if I called you?  
_Read 06:15_

The mobile vibrates in his hand less than five seconds later. Andrew’s name on the screen is accompanied by a picture Draco surreptitiously snapped of him at Kew. He feels a swooping sensation in his stomach but pushes it aside and answers the call.

“Jake?” Andrew sounds slightly out of breath and concerned? Maybe?

Draco sighs and wedges the mobile between his ear and the mattress so he doesn’t have to hold onto it. “Hey. Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, just got back from a run. You okay?” 

Unhelpfully, Draco’s mind supplies an image of Andrew, sweaty and wearing indecently tiny running shorts. He clears his throat, trying to dispel the thought. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You just sounded…” Draco can hear the concern in his voice. He can almost see Andrew’s head cocked to the side, like a dog trying to suss out what’s going on. It’s endearing, and Draco feels his walls start to come down.

“Yeah, it’s just been a long night.” He lets out a frustrated puff of air and nuzzles deeper into his blanket cocoon. “Bla— um, Mystique lost a heel from his shoe while dismounting the pole during rehearsal and ended up breaking his ankle. We’ve spent the last few hours at St Mungo’s.”

“Shit! Do either of you need anything?” Andrew asks earnestly.

Draco feels something warm grow in his chest. “No. But thank you. He’ll be off work tonight, but will be back tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” Andrew pushes. “When was the last time you ate? I could bring over—”

“Andrew, I promise, we’re fine. I’m fine.” A grin splits his face and he can feel the corners of his eyes crinkling. It’s been such a long time since anyone so openly cared for him. He hasn’t realised just how much he missed it.

But just as quickly as the feeling comes upon him, it slips away, leaving in its place the familiar roil of self-doubt growing in his belly. It has been lingering in the back of his mind ever since he met Jake, but until now, he’s been able to push it back quite easily, simply choosing to ignore his fears—until Blaise, high off of whatever pain potion the Healers had given him, asked if he was going to have to pick up the pieces of a broken-heart once Jake found out that he was dating a Malfoy. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’d find Draco drowning his sorrows on the floor in front of their telly, watching soap operas and stuffing his face with a dark chocolate Toblerone. 

He doesn’t want this thing with Andrew to end just like all the others, and yet, his self-doubt rears its ugly head and whispers that he isn’t worthy or deserving of the affections of someone as good as Andrew.

The silence that stretches between them could fill an ocean. Draco is sure that he will drown until it’s broken by Andrew’s calming voice. 

“Jake? What’s wrong?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” The words leap out of his mouth before he can shove them back down. He’s absolutely horrified that he allowed himself to show that type of vulnerability and briefly considers hanging up, but he knows that Andrew will just call back.

“Sorry, what?”

Now that the dam has broken, Draco can’t seem to hold anything back. “We barely know each other and you’re basically offering to get me food or anything my flatmate—who you haven’t even met—and I might need. Why? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing,” Andrew breathes. “Nothing’s in it for me, other than the knowledge that you’re okay.”

“But why?” Draco breaks his other arm free from the blanket and scrubs his face in frustration. “People don’t just do things like that. Well, maybe Hufflepuffs, but I know for a fact that you aren’t one.”

Andrew chuckles and Draco can almost see him ducking his head and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Jake, I’m doing it because I like you.”

Draco’s world narrows to a point. “You… like me?”

“So much,” Andrew reassures. “I thought I made it pretty clear the other day when I kissed you in the Bamboo Garden.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Jake,” he interrupts, “I don’t just go around kissing random blokes. Only people that I’m actually serious about.”

Draco blinks, trying and failing to take it all in. The gears in his brain are spinning, but gaining no traction. “You’re serious about me?” 

“Yes, very much so.”

“But… you don’t even know me. You don’t—”

“No, I don’t know you as well as I’d like, but we’ve talked every day this week and I want to know more. I may not know your favourite colour, but I know that you love greasy bacon sarnies and that you don’t open yourself up to others very often, but when you do you’re such a loyal friend, and you love your job. You’ve taken charge of your life and are making yourself happy. All those things make me want to know more.”

 _Yeah, now_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies. _But once you know…_

“But you don’t even know my name, who I really am.” Draco doesn’t want to be pushing Andrew away, but he needs to make the man understand. He needs to make Andrew understand that he isn’t worth knowing.

“You don’t know mine either,” Andrew argues.

“That’s different! You’re a good person.” He picks at a loose thread on the duvet wishing to Merlin that it would just swallow him whole and he would never have to emerge into the outside world again. 

“So are you.”

“No,” Draco whispers. “I’m really not. If you knew who I am, who I was during the war, what I did… You wouldn’t be speaking to me.”

“I know who you are now,” Andrew says in his rich calm voice.

Draco is sure that if it were possible, Andrew would draw him into those ridiculously toned arms. He wants that. He wants it to be Andrew surrounding him, not the duvet. But he knows from experience that it will never happen.

“I like who you are now,” Andrew continues. “I want to keep getting to know you. The past isn’t important.”

Draco’s scoff comes out louder than he intends.

“Yes, your past has shaped the man you are today. But Jake, none of us are the same people we were ten years ago.”

The man is stubborn, like another Gryffindor he was acquainted with once upon a time. A Gryffindor he’s thought of so often while in Andrew’s presence. Well, if the man won’t be turned off by his past, Draco is sure that his present is enough to run off any potential suitor.

“And you aren’t bothered about my profession?”

“No,” Andrew sounds genuinely confused. “Why would I be?”

Draco’s frustration reaches a boiling point and he kicks himself out of the blanket and begins pacing the floors of his room. “Because you’re a bloody primary school teacher and I’m a—”

“You dance. You have always loved to dance and you found a way to make a career out of it.”

“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable or jealous?” Draco shoots back. “You’re not bothered that five nights a week, I take off most of my clothing and dance in front of drunk, horny men for money? I’m not going to stop, you know.” He runs a hand through his hair, the silky blond not nearly as satisfying as the coarse brown he charms it at work. “I’m not going to find something else that’s more palatable for you just because we’re together. I’m going to be dancing until I can’t anymore. Most people—”

“I’m not most people,” Andrew cuts in. His voice is starting to take on a sharper tone, but he’s still so damned affable. “Look, I don’t do casual relationships and, from everything you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like you do casual either. I really like you, Jake, and I’d like to see where this goes. I think we could be good together. It’s taken me awhile to get to where I am now. I’m not going to lie, I’ve been working on my trust issues for a long time, and I can’t promise that I’ll always be perfect… I don’t trust a lot of people, Jake. But I trust you.”

Draco stills, everything finally clicking into place. He’s scared and a little bit shocked. No one has ever said that to him before. No one has ever placed their trust in him, not really. It’s such a fragile thing, trust. He’s absolutely terrified that he will break it, but it also serves as a beacon of hope. Maybe, just maybe, Andrew can accept him. Draco.

“What if…” Andrew continues, “What if I took you out for dinner or breakfast after your shift and we… reveal ourselves.”

“Reveal ourselves?” Draco repeats, heart racing in his chest.

“I’ve been hiding too,” he says quietly, almost as though he is ashamed. “If we’re going to make a proper go of this, I don’t think there should be any secrets between us.”

Draco nods, before responding in the affirmative.

“I’m watching my godson tonight, but maybe tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow works,” Draco says, mentally going through his schedule. “I just have the stag party that night. Should be done by midnight.”

“Okay,” Andrew’s voice is buoyant now with excitement. Sweet Salazar, the man truly is like a dog. “Can I come pick you up from work? I figure we can reveal ourselves after and then go get dinner.”

“Um… you can pick me up.”

“Great!”

Another silence stretches between them for a moment, but this time, it’s filled with quiet excitement and nerves rather than self-doubt.

“Hey, Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really excited to finally meet you.”

The hope that was blooming in Draco’s chest springs forth and is in danger of consuming him.

“I’m really excited to finally meet you too.”

* * *

To say that he is nervous is an understatement.

Harry stands in front of his open wardrobe, every article of clothing he owns, strewn across the bed and floor. What do you wear to reveal your true identity to the man you're pretty sure you’re falling for?

It’s only been a week, but Harry feels as though he’s known Jake his entire life. It was so easy to bare his soul to the man the day before, to lay his cards on the table. But now, standing in a sea of clothing, he is overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what he is about to do. Revealing himself to be Harry Potter: Saviour of the Wizarding World is terrifying. 

Everyone always seems to want a piece of him, and yet no one wants to get to know the man behind the legend. That’s why he insisted on the glamour in the first place. He wanted Jake to get to know him, the real him, before even considering revealing himself. But now, so much earlier than he thought, he finds himself unable to maintain the charade any longer. He likes Jake. He _really_ likes Jake, and he doesn’t want to hide anything from him.

He’s hopeful that Jake will be able to see past the whole Saviour thing. To see him as Harry. Just Harry. 

Very few people in his life haven’t put him on that pedestal. Hermione and the Weasleys, the Gryffindors once they got used to him, Snape, Malfoy—that was probably more due to hate than anything else—and now Jake. At the thought of Malfoy, Harry feels a surge of the old…passion—there’s no other word for it—between them. He feels something so very similar when he’s with Jake, but it feels more friendly, more welcoming. Not for the first time, Harry wonders if things between him and Malfoy could have been like this if they hadn’t started off on the wrong foot, but just as quickly he dismisses the thought.

In a fit of nervous desperation, he Floo calls Hermione and begs for her assistance in selecting an outfit. The 'Purple Shirt of Sex', as Dean calls it, is out if the running since he wore it on their first date. 

Harry's wardrobe has expanded considerably in the last decade. Not being forced to wear robes or Dudley's castoffs has allowed him to find his own personal style, but any fashion knowledge he may have once possessed has since fled his mind to be replaced with nerves. 

Finally, dressed in what Hermione assures him is a flattering outfit and his glamour, minus the coloured contacts, Harry Apparates to Diagon Alley with a quarter of an hour to spare, nerves insisting that he leave the house and do something rather than pace the floors.

Safely under an umbrella charm protected from the spitting rain, Harry makes his way to the club. He quickly rereads the text he received from Jake earlier in the evening directing him to find Masterson who will take him backstage. Following instructions, Harry weaves through the veritable sea of dancers and patrons, hardly sparing them a second glance. His mind is focused on a singular mission.

He finds Masterson by a doorway that Harry assumes leads to the private rooms. The man is tiny, head not even clearing Harry’s hip, and yet he cuts an imposing figure. Harry gets the impression that Masterson doesn’t put up with shit and can wreck a man in a duel if it comes down to it.

When Harry says that he’s there to meet Phoenix, the man’s sharp blue eyes twinkle and he gives Harry a knowing smirk before motioning him through the doorway and down a long corridor.

“Phoenix and Mystique are about to start their final number,” Masterson explains in his high pitched voice. He ushers Harry into what must be the backstage area. Harry can feel the baseline of the song pulsing in his chest. The sounds of men whooping and cheering can be heard sporadically over the music. It’s rather surreal to stand behind the curtain which has been charmed to act as a sort of one-way mirror and watch the action in the room without being seen. 

Masterson instructs Harry to stay behind the curtain and remain quiet. As he reaches the door, Masterson clears his throat, catching Harry’s attention. “By the way, excellent glamour charm, Mr Potter. Phoenix deserves to be cared for by someone like you.”

“Excuse me?” Harry splutters, fervently checking the back of his hand where the scars are glamoured to make sure that the charm hasn’t dropped, which it hasn’t. “How… how did you know it was me?”

Masterson smirks. “I own the club, Mr Potter. I can see past all the glamors. Besides, one doesn’t teach someone for six years without recognising their charm work.”

Harry stands there flummoxed as the man walks away, leaving him alone, but is quickly distracted as the lights in the private room lower and change to reds and blues as the music shifts. His attention immediately zeros in on Jake who is slowly descending from the ceiling as a discrete _Fumos_ pours fog onto the stage, disguising Mystique’s ascent from a trap door under the stage. Harry can’t tell if the multicoloured smoke is being changed by magic or the lights, but it’s casting an enticing image—Phoenix, a fallen angel, and Mystique, a demon, coming together in a forbidden dance of passion. 

Unlike the first time he watched Jake dance, it’s not the athleticism that draws him in now. He’s entranced by the two bodies moving together and being moved by each other. 

As Mystique moves on the pole, Phoenix levitates around him, appearing as if he is worshipping Mystique’s flesh without actually touching him. Harry feels a low pulse of arousal thrum through him as he imagines just how it would feel to have Jake’s mouth on him.

A flash of light at stage right catches Harry’s attention. Through the fog and low lights, Harry can make out a man in the far corner of the room taking photographs of the performance and the party. He remembers Jake mentioning that there would be a few well-known wizards at the show, but isn’t sure why someone would be taking photos in the club. 

_Unless_ , his brain supplies, _it’s for the Prophet._

As the lights change, Harry peers out into the audience—his curiosity getting the better of him—looking for anyone he might recognise. There, sitting front and centre, staring up at the dancers lustfully, not even bothering to disguise the bulge tenting his trousers, is Anthony Brown.

A cold panic washes over Harry and sits like a lead weight in his chest. A sinister voice, sounding terrifyingly like what came out of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, pops into his head. _Jake must have figured it out. Jake must have realised who Harry is and decided to get close to him so he could sell the story to the Prophet. It’s happened before. More often than not, dates or potential new friends are only looking to make a Galleon off their Potter stories._ It’s part of the reason why he works in the Muggle world. But he didn’t expect this from Jake. And now, to make it even worse, Jake has lured him to the club to watch as he dances for Harry’s ex-boyfriend who is about to marry the man he cuckolded Harry for… and the Prophet is going to have photos.

What was Jake expecting? For Harry to see it was his ex and then go off in a jealous tirade only to be captured on film for all the world to see? Harry can just imagine the scathing headlines touting him as unhinged. Well, he won’t give them the satisfaction. 

Jaw clenched, the tip of his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, hands fisted at his sides, Harry stares sightlessly at the curtain, completely unaware that the song has ended and Jake is no longer on stage. The lights are coming back up to their normal levels, and the shuffling of bodies filtering out of a room is the only sound that registers. 

Harry takes a shuddering breath to steady himself and then turns to head back out into the corridor only to be stopped short by a flushed Jake who is shyly playing with the hem of his robe.

“Hey!” Jake smiles, stepping forward for a kiss, but Harry turns his head at the last moment, letting the press of lips land on his cheek. A hurt look briefly flickers across Jake’s features but is almost instantly gone, replaced by confusion. “Your eyes are different,” he begins. “There’s not a spell that—”

“Coloured contacts,” Harry bites out dumbly. He’s not sure why he even bothered answering.

“Those Muggle things you put in your eyes instead of wearing glasses?”

This time Harry doesn’t answer. He wants to leave, to never have to look at Jake again, but he feels rooted to the spot. Harry’s breath feels ragged and laboured. He needs to leave before the damned photographer finds him. And yet, he can’t move. 

“Just let me change and freshen up a bit and I’ll meet you at the bar. Say, in ten minutes?” Jake asks, lingering next to Harry, looking like he wants to touch him but is restraining himself.

“I don’t think so,” Harry mumbles, shaking his head and forcing himself to take a step back and put some distance between him and Jake. 

“What?” 

Harry can see the fragile shell of Jake’s self-confidence crack, but he presses on anyway, willing himself not to care.

“I’m not sticking around to let you reveal me to the Prophet and my ex. If you wanted a damned ‘Harry Potter’ story, you could have just told them about the dinner we had that first night, or our date at Kew, or given them a copy of our texts. I shared some really personal shit with you, Jake, or whatever your name is. But this? This is a cruelty I never expected from you.” Harry roughly pushes past Jake, knocking their shoulders together along the way, making a beeline for the exit. 

“Harry?” Jake’s voice is barely above a whisper. It sounds surprised, but Harry pushes away the thought and continues out the door to the emergency exit. 

He hears the rustling of fabric and the slapping of shoes against the tiled floor but pays them no mind as he steps into the damp night air and Apparates away.

* * *

Draco stands outside of Grimmauld Place. The drizzle that started earlier in the evening has since turned into a downpour, and his umbrella charm is fading fast. 

It took a massive amount of bribery in the form of video games and promising to do all household chores for a month to convince Blaise to exploit his on-again-off-again relationship with Charlie Weasley and get Harry’s address.

Draco isn’t quite sure when Harry became Harry and not Potter, but knowing that he and Andrew are one and the same has surely had an effect. He still can’t believe that Blaise was right. Andrew is Harry. Harry, who he’s fancied for longer than he cares to admit. Even during the times that he was sure he hated the man, a small part of Draco always knew better. Even when they were only eleven, they were constantly drawn together like magnets. 

He wants to run. He wants to flee the street and the house formerly owned by his deranged Great-Aunt Walburga. He wants to leave and avoid the inevitable confrontation, never to look back. But he can’t. Draco was so close to having Andrew-- _Harry_ \--only to have the man snatched away from him at the very last moment. 

Draco needs to talk to him. He needs to make Harry understand that he hadn’t known. He didn’t know that he was dating Harry. He didn’t know that he’d be dancing for Harry’s ex until he walked into the room earlier that night. He needs to explain.

Summoning all his courage, Draco steps forward onto the property. The old wards must recognise him as a Black; he feels barely a tingle of magic as he passes through. Although he hears the ancient lock click open, Draco doesn’t step through the door. Instead, he raises his hand and knocks. 

Moments later, the door swings open to reveal Harry, glamour gone, barefoot, wearing a faded threadbare Gryffindor hoodie and novelty boxers with little snitches that flit across the fabric, a pint of chocolate ice cream in hand. There’s something so vulnerable about it all. Draco wants to reach forward and pull Harry into him. But he registers the surprise and annoyance that flash across Harry’s face before the man tries to slam the door in his face. 

Moving quickly, Draco wedges his foot between the door and the frame. “Please,” he nearly begs, “let me explain.”

Harry scoffs and eats a rather large spoonful of his ice cream, letting the door swing back open. “Don’t want to hear any of your explanations or apologies. How the hell did you get past my wards?” he asks almost as an afterthought.

“Harry, just listen to me. You don’t understand—”

“That was some real arsehole level shit you pulled,” Harry mumbles around another spoonful. “And to think that I was starting to fall for you.”

“What?”

Draco is floored. Harry has started falling for him? Him? He has to salvage this. He has to make Harry understand.

“Harry, I didn’t know it was you!” He runs a hand through his hair and tries to get closer, invading Harry’s space little by little. “Anthony brought the photographer. I had absolutely nothing to do with that. How can you think…? Harry, I would never do that to you.

“Well, I did something similar once,” he mumbles to himself before continuing. “But I’m not the same person I was then. Everything I’ve told you, besides my name, has been the truth. I want… I want to tell you who I am.”

Draco can see Harry’s sceptical look and bristles as the man shrugs and tries to close the door again. “Doesn’t matter,” Harry insists. “You made me believe—”

Since childhood, Draco has had an issue with controlling his temper. He’s been working very hard over the years to reign it in, but at the hurt, vulnerable, yet steadily closing off look on Harry’s face, Draco’s anger bubbles up inside of him. 

“Oh, shut up you great Gryffindor martyr!” Draco snaps. “Not everything is about you. Just listen to me!”

Harry looks at him dumbly for a moment but quickly snaps his mouth shut. Choosing to take that as compliance, Draco continues slowly, deliberately, “I didn’t know it was you. A few times I thought that maybe… But I never knew for sure. Not until tonight. The man I am today, the man you say that you trust, would never do that to you.”

Draco scrubs a hand across his face and sighs, deciding to go all in. “Harry, I care very deeply for you and would like to try and make a proper go of it if that’s still what you want. But there can’t be any more secrets between us.”

Without ceremony, Draco draws his wand from his trouser pocket and points it at himself, removing the glamour completely. He watches as realisation dawns upon Harry’s face. Harry’s eyes widen as brown curling tresses revert to blond and the angular features soften, but don’t disappear entirely. 

Harry’s green eyes flare and he steps closer, dropping his forgotten ice cream onto the floor. For a moment, Draco isn’t sure what Harry is going to do, but then a calloused and scarred hand gently cups his face, and he can feel Harry’s warm breath on his skin.

“Draco,” Harry whispers reverently, caressing his cheek, resting their foreheads together. The fragility in his eyes is almost too much to bear. “I hoped it was you.”

Draco’s breaths are shallow—each one ripping through him, threatening to tear him apart—and he grasps onto Harry for dear life. Allowing himself to be vulnerable isn't his strong suit. His whole life, Draco has been told to keep everything close to his chest—to not let anyone see the cracks in the foundation. But he's done it once before. He can do it again, for Harry.

“It’s always been me,” Draco murmurs. “Please, let me show you… let me show you that I’m not who I once was. Harry, I—”

“Shh,” Harry shushes him, placing a firm, but reassuring kiss on his forehead before drawing back and taking him by the hand. “Come inside. Let’s get to know each other, for real this time.”

Stepping into Grimmauld Place, led by Harry, Draco is hit by an overwhelming surge of comfort. Of peace. They have a lot to talk about. They can't just go on like they were as Andrew and Jake. They have a past, and no matter what Harry, as Andrew, said, there will be things in their shared history that they have to work through. There's trust that they need to build. But Harry is giving him a chance, one he won't squander. It may take a while, but Draco is willing to put in the work. Because every moment with Harry is like waking up slow.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Magic anthology](/series/1900732), a series of Drarry fics inspired by Hogwarts’ seven core subjects.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/2Qx1l1Y); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.


End file.
